From Dust & Ashes Resou… · Yet for her, sleep would not come. I’m free, I’m free, she kept telling herself. But she knew it wasn’t true. She felt no freedom inside, only

April 28,1945St.Georgen,Austria

Helene breathed deeply and pretended to sleep asFriedrich staggered into the darkened bedroom. He’dbeen out later than usual. Through the silent, lonelyhours her wandering imagination had tried to picturewhom her husband was with and what he’d been do-ing. A hundred scenarios crossed her mind. None ofthem good.

She could distinguish three scents as Friedrich care-lessly fell upon the bed beside her: sweat, vodka, and asick, flowery perfume. Sweat from beating half–deadprisoners. Vodka to help him face the monster he’d be-come. And the perfume . . . She pressed her face deeperinto her pillow.

Friedrich panted heavily as he leaned over her. She

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From Dust & Ashes:From Dust & Ashes 4/2/08 11:34 AM Page 9

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huddled deep under the thick white comforter and letout a dreamlike sigh, hoping to keep him at bay.

Friedrich lingered for a moment. He twisted one ofher loose curls on his finger, then rose from the bed andcrossed the floor.

She pulled the comforter back over her body as hemoved to the black military chest in the corner. Steelhinges creaked as it opened.

Helene watched from beneath the covers. Any lovingwife would awaken to tell her husband good-bye, to helphim pack, to assist his escape from the enemy’s approach.Helene felt anything but loving.

Friedrich tossed a few items into a small, dark suit-case. She watched him pull his German luger from itsholster and remove the empty magazine. With the click-click of the new magazine, Helene pictured the tormented,rigid faces of the dead strung up on barbed-wire fenceslike clothes on a laundry line. Sightless eyes reflectinghorror, disbelief.

Friedrich shrugged out of his uniform, brass buttonsknocking against the wooden floor. He pulled brownpants, a white shirt, boots, and a blue jacket over his mus-cular frame. Civilian attire. Helene remained motionless.

Over the past few days, whispered rumors had passedfrom wife to wife at the camp store. Many of the high-ranking guards were leaving. Fleeing the advancing troops.

“The Americans have crossed the Rhine,” a friendhad shared in hushed tones. “They are fighting theirway through Germany and into Austria. Some claim theRussians are coming in fast from the north.” Helene


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knew it was anyone’s guess who’d arrive first to discoverthe nightmare she’d lived since that dark winter of 1940.

Now it seemed the rumor was true. Friedrich wasleaving. Abandoning her, his four-year-old daughter,and the child in her womb. Leaving just like that.

Anika cried out from across the hall, and Friedrichswore under his breath.

Helene jumped from the bed and hurried to the child’sroom. Muted white light from the guard towers filledthe room, and Helene could clearly make out Anika’soutstretched arms.

Helene sat on the bed. She took the small girl intoher embrace and pressed her cheek into her child’ssweet-smelling hair. Helene felt Anika’s arms encircleher neck, and she willed her daughter to stay calm.“Quiet, shhh, quiet,” she murmured.

Anika’s body tensed as Friedrich stalked into theroom and hovered near the doorway. Helene shivered,remembering the last time he had been drinking. Therantings, the threats.

“Please, just leave,” Helene wanted to say. Shepulled her daughter tight to her chest and longed forfreedom from all that this man represented. Tonight,again, she remembered that winter . . . cattle cars stuckin snow . . . prisoners left to freeze to death becausethey weren’t worth the effort it would take to carrythem to the camp.

Her stomach tightened as she remembered the chillingscreams that had journeyed through the night air to her


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window. Urgent pleas from men, women, and children.Then finally, with morning’s light, silence.

All through that night, she had implored Friedrichto do something. She had screamed at him, called him amurderer. Still he refused, his cold gaze resting upon heras it surely did now. He told her she didn’t understand.He said he was protecting her, but Helene didn’t believehim. Instead of standing up to the evil, he allowed it tobecome a part of him.

“I’ll be back to get you,” Friedrich said, his voice de-termined. “I’ll get settled and come back for you both.”

“You mean us three?” Helene corrected, pressingAnika against her bulging middle.

“Ja, of course.”She slowly rocked her daughter. “We’ll be fine. I’ll

go back to my father’s gasthaus. He can always use anextra hand at the inn.”

Friedrich cursed and pounded the doorjamb with hisfist.

“If Father will take me back,” she added.“He’s a foolish, naïve old man. Don’t think I’m blind

to what he’s been doing. I’ve looked the other way foryour sake.” Friedrich started to leave, then stopped. Helet out a deep breath. “I wasn’t a bad guard, Helene,” hesaid, his back to her. “Not like some.”

“Of course,” she said.“You will be safe. No one will hurt you or Anika.”“No, I’m sure we’ll be fine.”Anika whimpered again. Helene lay down with her,

close enough to touch noses. Friedrich whistled a


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solemn tune that Helene faintly recognized. Anika’seyes grew wide.

What’s that song? Helene wondered. But before shecould ask, he was gone.

Heavy, booted footsteps crossed the wooden floorand pounded down the stairs. After a brief pause, thefront door opened and closed. Shouts echoed in thestreets. Nazi trucks rumbled through the night.

He’s gone.Moments passed with the ticking of the old wall

clock. Helene felt her daughter’s body relax. After a fewminutes, the child’s fingers crawled up Helene’s chestand tickled her chin.

“In there hidden, in there deep, is laughter happywaitin’ to peep,” Anika whispered.

How many times had Helene recited that simplepoem to her daughter during these dismal days of war?

The girl’s tickles continued until unforeseen laugh-ter gushed from Helene. It caught both her and Anikaby surprise. Then, equally unexpected, with the laugh-ter came tears. And with the tears, Helene’s quiet sobsthat gently rocked her child to sleep.

Yet for her, sleep would not come. I’m free, I’m free,she kept telling herself. But she knew it wasn’t true. Shefelt no freedom inside, only pain. Pain that constrictedaround her heart like a hangman’s noose and cinchedtighter with each haunted memory.

� � �


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April 30,1945Füssen,Germany

SouthernGerman/AustrianBorder

The two men ran through the moonlit woods withstrength they didn’t realize they possessed. Time wasrunning out. The hunters would soon be hunted.

To the one in the lead, the countryside was familiar.Friedrich recognized the landforms, the scent of the air.Despite his sense of urgency, he relished the feeling of hisfeet pounding on the soft, dark soil. Although dense treesblocked his view, he knew the green farmlands of Ger-many spread to the north. Behind him, the Swiss Alpsveered to the southwest, the Austrian Alps to the south-east. Ahead was the tiny town of Füssen, their destination.

The thick-waisted soldier who ran behind him lackedin both knowledge of the area and in stamina. Arnorumbled through the forest like an armored tank. A crashsounded from the woodland floor, and Friedrich stopped,then swore. He turned to find his companion sprawled inthe underbrush like a gunned-downed prisoner.

Friedrich’s breathing was labored as he leaned overthe man. “Get up, you useless fool,” he hissed. “Whatwas I thinking bringing you?”

The man lifted his unshaven face from the soil. Inthe near-full moon, Friedrich noticed sweat beaded onhis companion’s brow.

Arno pushed himself up from the dirt and wiped hismud-smeared cheek with his shirtsleeve. “Forget it. Weare a day behind schedule as it is,” he seethed. “I am


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going back before they leave without us.” He took twosteps in the opposite direction.

Friedrich gripped Arno’s arm. His teeth clenched as heattempted to calm his screaming nerves. If he hadn’t neededan extra hand, he wouldn’t have sought help in the firstplace. Arno had no idea what he was walking away from.Perhaps now the time had come to sweeten the lure.

“I don’t care if you come or not, but you have noidea . . .” Friedrich pushed Arno’s arm away and low-ered his voice. “What if I told you all the golden trin-kets we’ve confiscated over the last five years weremerely pocket change?”

Arno’s eyebrows lifted, and Friedrich knew the manwas picturing towering piles of booty from the campstorehouse.

Friedrich searched the man’s round face, weighing ifArno could be trusted. He saw the same dull expressionhe’d seen every day at work. But he had no choice. Heneeded help claiming the prize.

He glanced behind him and spoke low and quickly.“I was in Vienna in ’38. All Jews were ordered to give adetailed declaration of their valuables. I was a clerk,and those money-grubbers acknowledged enough wealthto make my superiors tremble with greed.”

“And you pocketed your own share?”Friedrich shrugged. “It was easier than I imagined.”“How can you be sure the person holding the loot

has not cashed in?”Friedrich grinned, realizing Arno was once again in

his grasp. “If you can’t trust your own mother, who can


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you trust? Besides, we’re not too far off course.” Hedug into his left trouser pocket and pulled out theforged travel papers and his new identity card. “Afterthis, we have one more stop, then on to Italy.” He pat-ted his other pockets. Where was the map, the address?

“Something wrong?” Arno asked.Friedrich shook his head. “It’s of no consequence. I

left something in the house. But not to worry.” Hetapped his head. “It’s all up here.”

The sound of a distant vehicle echoed through thetrees. Arno wiped his brow, his eyes hungry. “Does any-one else know?”

A tune lilted through Friedrich’s mind. He pushed itout of his thoughts. “Nein. No one.”

Arno nodded.“But before we claim the spoils, I need you to deliver

this.” Friedrich reached into his jacket and produced aclean white envelope. Pulling a three-inch knife out ofthe swastika-embellished sheath on his belt, he sliced asmall gash in his palm, letting a few drops of bloodstain the envelope. “A messenger will meet you in frontof the stone church on the edge of town. Tell him youfound this on my dead body. He’ll know what to do.Then wait at the church. There’s a hiding spot in aclump of trees near the cemetery. I’ll find you. We onlyhave a few hours, so hurry.”

Arno snatched the bloodied envelope. The sound oftrucks rumbled nearer. “What about you? Where willyou be?”

Friedrich pretended not to hear the question. He re-


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sheathed the knife and pulled his luger from its holster.“We must split up.” He pointed straight ahead. “Thechurch is that way, no more than a kilometer. Now go.”

Arno raced toward the town. Friedrich ran the op-posite direction. He was close; he could feel it. Soon,he’d have the bounty he’d waited five years to retrieve.By morning, he would be a rich man on his way to Italy.Then Argentina after that.

Friedrich picked up his pace. He spotted the smallfarm in the distance. A curl of white smoke rose fromthe brick chimney. Almost there.

A branch cracked beside him. Friedrich spun around.Three men crouched behind a large boulder. He recog-nized their uniforms immediately. Olive-green shirtsand trousers. Steel helmets. M1 rifles. Americans!

“Halt!” one man called.Friedrich aimed his handgun at that man. Gunfire

sounded.Then only blackness.

� � �

The roar of the trucks reverberated even louder, butArno couldn’t tell which direction they were comingfrom. He was a fool for listening to Friedrich. Perhapsit was a trap. He’d seen the way Friedrich had playedhis hand with his superiors, allowing everyone else todo his dirty work while he paraded around town withhis lovely wife.

Still . . . the riches were tempting.


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Shouts split the air. Arno paused midstep, his heartpounding. Gunfire rang out. He dashed behind a treeand peered in the direction Friedrich had run. He couldmake out the silhouettes of helmets bent over someoneon the ground. Friedrich.

Arno cursed. His legs trembled. He couldn’t believethis was happening. In one second Friedrich was out ofthe picture. Even if the man wasn’t already dead, hewould be soon. Arno vowed he would not be next.

He backed away. His hands shook, but he was de-termined not to make a sound, determined not to at-tract attention. When Arno felt he was a safe distanceaway, he whirled around and sprinted. The woods beganto thin as he ran. A church steeple rose in the distance.Arno slowed. Now what?

He stopped and kicked the ground. They wouldleave without him. Sail away to safety. And I’ll be stuckhere. Friedrich, you idiot! Why’d I listen to you? I’llnever get out of this now.

Then Arno thought of the man who awaited him,Friedrich’s messenger. Only a small clearing separatedhim from the church.

Arno stared at the envelope clutched in his hand. Heducked behind a tree and ripped it open. He pulled outthe letter, read it, then slipped it back in the envelope.

Then again, he thought, a smirk crossing his face,perhaps I don’t want to leave the country after all.

� � �


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May 1,1945

Arno blew warm air onto his cold hands. He adjustedthe thin blanket around his shoulders. The wall he leanedagainst rose high above him, ending in a jagged line. Be-yond that there was only night sky, just beginning tolighten. Friedrich’s messenger—not a man, but a boy ofthirteen—had brought him to this castle ruin in hopesof finding safety. So far it had worked.

Arno glanced at the boy, sleeping soundly under thestars. Shaggy, straw-colored hair covered most of hisfreckled face. Over the past few days he’d discoveredthat Henri was a dedicated Nazi youth and a hired handto Friedrich’s mother. Arno reached over and shook theboy. Henri stirred, then sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“It is time,” Arno said. “You will go to the old womanas planned. I will watch from a distance. Tell her Friedrichwants to know if she still has the treasure. Ask if it is safe.”

The boy hesitated. Arno knew what he was waitingfor. He tossed a few cigarettes to him. “That is a downpayment. I am much more generous than Friedrich, ja?”

Henri’s eyes sparkled. “Ask Frau Völkner about thetreasure. I understand.” He jumped to his feet andbrushed the dust from his tan shirt and knickers. To-gether they advanced down the hill, an ebbing moonbrightening their path.

When they reached the small cottage, they saw alight flickering inside. Arno hung back in the covering oftrees. He watched Henri stroll up to the house and tapon the door. The woman eagerly welcomed him inside.


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Arno leaned against a tree and lit up a cigarette. Ashe surveyed his surroundings, he noticed castles high upon the hill. Not ruins like he’d stayed in the previousnight, but two full-fledged castles with tall windowsand massive turrets. He wondered what it must havebeen like for young Friedrich to grow up under theshadow of such wealth.

Arno waited an hour, then two. He’d just about de-cided to storm the door when the boy emerged from thehouse, waved, and jogged away. The stooped-over oldwoman waved back.

Henri sauntered down the road for a while beforeslipping back into the woods. As he approached, Arnocaught a whiff of bacon and eggs. His stomach growled,but hunger was the least of his concerns.

“Well?” Arno asked impatiently.“Frau Völkner is a nice lady,” Henri commented.

“She fed me breakfast and told me how her goats weredoing, and—”

“What did she say about Friedrich?”“She laughed when I mentioned treasure. She

thought I was joking. She asked about her son. I toldher he was doing well.” Henri paused. “He is doingwell, isn’t he?”

“Of course.” Arno patted the boy’s shoulder. “Hehas just been detained for a while. Now, go on.”

“She’s a poor woman, living off the few schillingsher son sends every month. She obviously knows noth-ing about a treasure.”

Arno thought back to Friedrich’s words: “If you


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can’t trust your mother, who can you trust?” Surely thewoman knew something. Maybe he’d have to get it outof her himself.

Henri’s brow furrowed. “There was one thing—”Arno straightened. “Stacks of Friedrich’s letters. Hewrites weekly and has since joining the military.”

A smirk curled on Arno’s lips. That’s it. Informationabout the treasure has to be hidden in those letters.

“You are going back tomorrow,” Arno said, foldinghis arms across his chest. “Only this time, I am goingwith you.”


May 5,1945MuehlviertelRegion,AustriaEleventhArmoredDivisionFirst Platoonof TroopD

Forty-first CavalryReconnaissance Squadron,Mechanized

The half-track rumbled like a purring lion. Withthe tanklike track and the front wheels providing goodmobility, this truck was the perfect vehicle for recon-naissance. Cool air from the open window tugged atthe corners of the open map as Sergeant Peter Scottrechecked the platoon’s location. He calculated the red-lined route would not take more than an hour.

Peter’s men had arisen before dawn, readied the am-munition, and secured information about terrain condi-tions and enemy emplacements. They’d received ordersto secure a bridge near St. Georgen, Austria. Now on

Two


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their way, Josef, Peter’s driver, focused on the roadahead. Banion, his gunner, sat in the armored box inback, machine guns ready . . . just in case.

One half-track led the way. Peter’s was second inline. He glanced at the side mirror, assessing the ribbonof machinery that wound behind. Twenty men in olive-drab fatigues and steel helmets followed in a parade ofhalf-tracks and mud-splattered jeeps.

Troop D’s task was to find the bridge and check itssuitability for heavy convoys. If the bridge was intact,advancing troops that followed could use it to bypassthe heavy fighting in the city of Linz and along othermajor roads of the Danube Valley.

Even though the fighting had died down in most ar-eas, hinting that an end to the war was in sight, Germanholdouts were still scattered throughout northern Aus-tria. They were the only barrier blocking the meeting ofPatton’s Third Army and the Russians. And once the twounited, all of Europe would finally be in Allied control.

Peter tried to picture St. Georgen, the small townthat would give the Eleventh Armored the passage itneeded. Just another stop on the journey from Nor-mandy, through France and Belgium, into Germanyand Austria. Another scenic village the war would keephim from enjoying.

Yesterday, when his division stopped for mainte-nance, Peter imagined how much his sister, Annie,would get a kick out of painting the landscape ofrolling hills draped with green and dotted with century-old cottages. Or the high Austrian peaks on the horizon


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that reminded him of the Rockies near their home.And even as his mind returned to Montana, his eyes

examined the hills, watching for movement in the brushor the flickering gleam of the sun against a Germanweapon. He knew the enemy could strike at any moment,and often had during their months of movement.

Josef, a nineteen-year-old Austrian American, shiftedgears, taking the purr one level deeper. “Kinda peaceful,ain’t it, Scotty?”

Peter regarded Josef, wondering what it was like forhim to be fighting the men who’d caused many of hispeople to flee their homeland.

“Peaceful is different from quiet,” Peter replied,sliding his palm down the barrel of his trusted carbine.“Quiet it is. Peaceful it’s anything but. You ought toknow that.”

Peter’s words sounded harsher than he intended, butover the past few months he’d come to realize peacewas simply a lie. Nicknamed Preacher by his pals on thefootball team back in Columbia Falls, he had dreamedof impacting others with the good news of God’s love.That dream had died on the battlefield. Beaches dottedwith bodies and open ditches filled with channels ofblood had a way of doing that. Now his friends justcalled him Scotty.

Josef took the cue and focused again on the road.Peter scrutinized his driver. Josef looked a lot like

the dark-haired, light-eyed villagers he’d seen peeringfrom the shuttered cottages they’d passed. But Peterstood out like a carrot in a cabbage patch. With his


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blond-red hair, green eyes, and tall, lanky build, he wasalways seen, always remembered. And he used it to hisadvantage. The memory he determinedly left with hissuperiors was one of total effort. In the past two yearshe had done his job well, even learning the Germanlanguage.

Peter smiled at the thought of what diligence cost.Taking the jobs no one else wanted. Insisting his troopswere best prepared. Spearheading through unknownterritory.

They passed a sign announcing the town of Kats-dorf. The moment they entered the village, Peter knewsomething was wrong. Villagers’ faces—typically somecurious, some frightened, others joyous—were not attheir usual spots in the windows. Outside of town, roadbarriers appeared more frequently. Peter tried to remem-ber hearing of any German outposts near this spot, buthe couldn’t. If some type of camp were close, it was an-other confounded Nazi secret.

“Corporal Clifton,” Peter radioed to the actingscout, “stay alert.”

The line of vehicles slowed. Without checking, Peterknew his men had their heads cocked, inspecting thehills for the slightest movement.

A few miles down the road, one man’s shout split theairwaves. “On high ground! Germans!”

Peter spotted them. Five Krauts watched fromabove the tree line on a high hill. They were partiallyhidden by boulders and shrubs.

On Peter’s order, gunfire thundered from the front


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half-track, hitting just shy of the boulders. None re-turned. Was this a trap?

Peter swung his carbine in the direction of the sur-rounding hillside. The Germans had vanished. Heclimbed out of the half-track and scrambled to the coverof trees. “Fan out! Search for mines and men.”

Soldiers leaped from their vehicles and spread intothe low trees that lined the road while the drivers re-mained to cover them.

“Scotty,” a voice called out. “Over here!”It was Clifton. Peter couldn’t distinguish if the strain

in his voice carried pain or fear. Perhaps both.Peter advanced toward the towering oaks. He mo-

tioned for a few others to join him, then inched throughthe heavy foliage. A thick pine scent penetrated the air.Wildflowers grew in clusters. A bird, startled from itsnest, flew across the cloudless sky.

Then Peter spotted Clifton. He was crouched in theshadow of a large oak, staring at a large clearing justbeyond the trees. Peter followed the corporal’s gaze,then pulled out his field glasses to take a closer look.

The terrain was rugged. Boulders lay scattered overthe rolling, grass-covered hills. In the distance, next towhat appeared to be a steep quarry wall, a ten-foot-high perimeter fence glistened in the sunlight. Thefenced-off area held men. Men caged like animals.

“They’re less than a mile away,” Peter said toClifton. “And no guards in sight. But we can’t get therewith our vehicles. It’s too risky. We’ll have to walk.”

Peter glanced over his shoulder. A dozen of his


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troops gathered behind him, creating a semicircle ofprotection.

Peter pointed to the three closest men: Murphy,Banion, and Clifton. “Follow me.” As they ventureddown the grassy hillside, the breeze captured a sicken-ing smell. The stench became stronger with each step.

Peter stopped when he saw a lone German approach-ing through swaying wildflowers and grass. The thinman’s empty hands were raised. A tattered gray uniformwith too-short sleeves hung limply from his shoulders.

“Get on the ground, facedown,” Peter yelled in Ger-man. “Get down!” He pointed his carbine toward thedirt.

“I have nothing. I have nothing,” the man cried inEnglish. He fell to the ground and stretched out his limbs.

“Murphy. Banion. Check him for weapons.”Peter watched them pat the man down, then scruti-

nized the hillsides, wondering if a full attack would bewaged.

“He’s clean, Sarge,” Murphy reported.The two GIs yanked the German to his feet, then

thrust him toward Peter. He staggered a few steps anddropped to his knees.

“Who are you?” Peter asked.“I am Wilhelm,” he stuttered. Peter wondered why

he gave no last name or rank but didn’t care enough toask. More important matters concerned him now.

“What is that?” Peter pointed to the fencing in thedistance.

“It is prisoner-of-war camp called Gusen. I take you


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there.” The German’s eyes seemed eager, as if he hopedhis assistance would save his life.

Peter lifted Wilhelm’s chin with a firm grip. “Whoare the prisoners?”

“Refugees from Poland and Russia. Some Italiansalso.”

“Any Americans?”“Nein. No GIs.” Wilhelm’s eyes darted. Peter de-

tected the lie. He guessed that if there weren’t Ameri-cans in the camp now, there had been.

Peter ordered his troops to move back to the ve-hicles. Then, with a tight grasp on the German’s arm,he dragged him up the hill, then slammed him againstthe door of his half-track. “Call out to your comrades.”He pointed his rifle in the direction of the hills. “Tellthem to lay down their weapons and surrender.”

Wilhelm shouted the commands. A couple dozenfilthy men staggered out of hiding with hands high.Their uniforms were neither those of the regular Ger-man army nor the SS. These were not trained soldiers.Some were very young, others quite old. Most likelythey’d been left behind to cover for fleeing SS troops.

“Line up in groups of ten, five abreast,” Peter called.These prisoners were not part of the day’s plans, butthey would be a fine bounty to present to his Com-manding Officer, Captain Standart.

Peter checked his watch. It was only nine o’clock.Still early enough to check out the POW camp and se-cure the bridge . . . wasn’t it? Both were in the same di-rection. But should he risk going beyond his orders?


30

“McCoy. Wilks,” Peter called. “Restrain them, thenwait here. Wilks, you’re in charge. Jackson, radio theCO for a pickup. The rest of you, follow me.”

Peter pressed the point of his carbine into Wilhelm’sside. “Take us to the camp.”

“You must go through St. Georgen,” he replied,eyes to the ground.

“Then you will lead us,” Peter commanded. He mo-tioned to his troops. “Back to the vehicles!”

Wilhelm climbed into Peter’s rig, then led the half-tracks and jeeps to an unmanned roadblock at leasteight feet higher than any Peter had ever seen.

“Check for trip wires and mines,” he instructed. In thedistance, he heard the muffled sound of a motor. Petertook out his field glasses and spotted a white touringcar traveling down the road toward them. A Swiss RedCross flag fluttered from the hood.

“What now?” Peter mumbled. “Keep them in yoursights,” he radioed to his men as their convoy skirtedthe roadblock.

When the white car stopped before them, a Swisscivilian stepped out. He was a slender man with small,round spectacles and a knee-length white trench coat.The flag on his coat pocket identified him as an interna-tional Red Cross worker.

Two German officers climbed out of the backseat.The sleeves of their brown uniforms were wrapped withred armbands, their knee-high black boots spotless. Everyinstinct told Peter to shoot. To go for those uniforms


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decorated like Christmas trees. How many innocentlives paid for those medals?

Instead, Peter calmly climbed out of the half-track.“What’s going on?” he asked in German.

After a few minutes of hurried dialogue, Peter trans-lated for his men. “They say there’s a camp with fourhundred SS on the far side of the bridge, looking for aU.S. general to surrender to. And there are sixteen hun-dred prisoners eager to be freed.”

Peter searched his men’s faces, seeking their response.They waited for his. They all knew this went far beyondorders.

He spoke first in English, then in German. “I am adirect representative of the commanding general of theEleventh Armored Division.” Neither his voice nor hiseye contact wavered. “There are hundreds more troopscoming behind us.” Peter knew the Germans under-stood his words. He just hoped they believed them.

The half-truth paid off. Soon Peter’s radio operatorhad him on the line with the CO. “Sir, the Red Crosssays there are sixteen hundred prisoners depending onus for a fast liberation. They assure me there will be notrouble.”

Captain Standart’s voice crackled on the other end.“We’re already on our way to pick up the Germans youcaptured an hour ago. How many more prisoners doyou need?”

Peter suppressed a laugh.“Look,” Captain Standart said, “your mission was to


32

secure the bridge. This little side trip of yours representsan unnecessary risk for you and your men.”

Peter realized it could be a trap. He also recognizedthat those POWs behind the fence needed his troops.

“You know me, sir,” Peter said, “and I know mymen. We’re willing to take the chance.”

There was a long pause. “On one condition.” Cap-tain Standart’s voice was firm. “Keep in constant radiocommunication with me. Do you hear?”

“Yes, sir.”Peter addressed the Red Cross worker. “We’re mov-

ing out under the lead of the white car. But tell the Ger-mans that if I detect even one false move it will all beover. And be prepared to stop at the bridge beforecrossing. We will make sure it is secure.”

The twenty-three remaining GIs returned to theirhalf-tracks and jeeps. Peter gave the order to move for-ward, then wiped his sweaty palms on his pants, hopingno one noticed.

Back on the main road, and within a matter of min-utes, the entourage wound through St. Georgen. Thetown curled up to the hills around it, as if seeking pro-tection. A white church with a tall steeple rested in thecenter. The village circled out from there.

Just beyond the town Peter’s troops found the bridge.They checked it for mines and made sure it could han-dle the weight of convoys. Then Peter left two soldiersto guard it while the rest of Troop D followed the whitecar over the winding river.

The Red Cross vehicle stopped before a large wooden


33

gate. A tall wire fence extended from both sides. Thethree occupants emerged. Peter’s half-track pulled upbehind, and he jumped out.

Camp Gusen consisted of a series of plank struc-tures set against a white, sandy hillside. On the frontand sides of the camp stood tall administration build-ings. Beyond that, row after row of dark wooden bar-racks. Cement guard towers protected the corners.They were empty now, but Peter could imagine Nazisentries with rifles aimed into the courtyard below. Afog of death hung in the air, filling Peter’s lungs withevery inhalation. A trembling started at his knees andworked its way up his body, landing in his chest. Heused every bit of his will not to gag.

One of the two German officers approached Peteracross a carpet of ash. His stride was long and power-ful. Peter met him halfway, matching the strut. The offi-cer gave an American salute. Peter kept his arm stiff athis side, wishing for nothing more than to finish himoff. But a bullet was too clean, too easy.

Peter glared at the officers. “Hör zu! Listen! I’mtaking this camp. All Germans must surrender.”

The Nazi straightened his shoulders, then barkedthe command. A siren blared from the towers. Guardsscurried from various corners of the camp and lined upin front of Peter, their gun barrels pointed to the ground.Each guard gave an American salute.

Peter had never thought he would witness a day likethis. Yet even the scene before him could not quiet hismounting apprehension.


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“Secure the Germans,” he ordered for the secondtime that day. “Round them up.”

Peter’s eyes darted from his men to the Germans tothe camp, assessing the situation. When he saw his meneasily restraining the enemy, officers included, he al-lowed his attention to focus on the prisoners.

Crowded behind a wire fence strung on cementpoles, wasted figures streamed from the dim buildings.Hundreds of them cried out with joy and tears. Thoughstill alive, their emaciated bodies only vaguely resembledhuman beings. Some trembled beneath thin blankets ortattered clothing. Others stood completely nude, menand women alike.

Women? This was no prisoner-of-war camp. Thesepeople had been chosen for eradication.

Peter and a half dozen of his men marched throughthe gates of the camp. A wild ovation of cheers rose forthe liberators. Hands, bloody and frail, reached out forthe slightest touch of freedom.

Peter’s legs quivered as if he’d just run a marathon.The thrill of freedom and the anguish of what mancould do to man intertwined like cords of light anddarkness.

Thin arms punched the air in exhilaration. Bonyknees sank into the ground as many collapsed. Trem-bling fingers covered faces. Peter and his men foundthemselves surrounded by a sea of skeletal bodies.

Peter sucked in sharply as his gaze stopped on onewoman. While most shoulders slumped under the invi-sible weight of oppression, she stood erect. Her face


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was unmoving, her eyes fixed on his. Blue eyes, he not-ed. As blue as the sky above him. Her hair, gray withdirt, was cropped short. She wore a man’s striped shirt,which hung to her knees like a cloak, hiding her armsand hands in its sleeves. Something in her gaze drewhim. Her mouth moved, but her words were lost in thenoise of the crowd. Still, Peter sensed what she was say-ing. Thank you. Thank you.

Peter felt his chest tighten. He stalked back to thehalf-track. “Jackson, get the CO on the radio. Now!”

Within seconds the commanding officer’s voicebroke through. “What’s happening, Scotty?”

“Sir, this isn’t a prisoner-of-war camp. These peoplearen’t soldiers. They’re civilians. Thousands of dyingpeople. Far more than sixteen hundred.”

“And the bridge?”“Sir, the bridge is intact and secure. But many of

these prisoners will be dead before they’re able to leavethe gates.”

He wanted to say more. He ached to tell his captainabout the hands, the faces. The smell. The terror. Butno words came.

“Do what you can,” Captain Standart answered,“until we get there.”

Peter handed the radio back and returned to hismen at the gates. “Jones, get the keys and release thosewho are still locked up. Murphy, find clothing. Any-thing to cover these people.”

“And food,” Josef added, his voice shaky.


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“You’re right. Banion, see what kind of food youcan find.” His men took off to follow his orders.

“Scotty . . .” Josef’s voice trembled even more thanbefore.

Peter followed his driver’s gaze to a log pile alongthe side of a building. Then he realized they weren’tlogs at all, but bodies. Mouths gaped open in silentscreams. Arms crossed over legs. Hair, like cheap wigs,fell over frozen faces.

Josef took two steps, then fell onto his hands andknees, his body convulsing as nausea overtook him.

Peter pulled a handkerchief from his shirt pocketand handed it to Josef. Before he could muster thecourage to approach the pile, a commotion drew his at-tention back to the crowd.

Something had changed. The cries of celebrationhad transformed into screams of outrage as the prison-ers neared the rows of guards lined up outside the wirefencing. Eyes that had shed tears of joy just momentsbefore were narrowed into wicked glares. The prisonerswanted more than deliverance. They wanted vengeance.Now an angry mob, the victims surged toward the gates.

Despite his own feelings of outrage, Peter knew hehad to take control. It was obvious that if order was notrestored, many lives would be lost—prisoners, guards,and GIs alike.

His men guarding the gates awaited Peter’s com-mand, peering grimly down the sights of their M1s. Someweapons were fixed on the guards, others on the prisoners.

Peter fired a round into the air. The commotion stilled.


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“Step back,” he shouted to the crowd. “We will re-move the German guards, and then you will be set free.We are not leaving. We will stay until all is in order.”The message was translated throughout the crowd, andthe mass of humanity slowly pulled away from thefence.

Peter caught movement from the corner of his eye.Spinning around, gun ready, he found a frail prisonerwho had dared to step from the ranks. The man’s eyeswere fixed on Peter. The man’s trembling hands reachedupward as he collapsed at Peter’s feet. He gripped Pe-ter’s leg like a vise. His chest shook and his eyes fixatedon a distant vision as one last breath rattled from hisbody.

The hold on Peter’s leg gave way. Peter lowered hisgun.

“Sir?” The Red Cross worker hurried to Peter’s side.“You cannot stay here. This is only a subcamp.” Hishands motioned to the mountains toward the east.“The main camp is four kilometers away, on the hill.”

Peter’s mouth went dry. “Repeat that.”“Mauthausen, the main camp, is up ahead. There

are many more guards ready to surrender. More prison-ers to free.”


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From Dust & Ashes Resou… · Yet for her, sleep would not come. I’m free, I’m free, she kept telling herself. But she knew it wasn’t true. She felt no freedom inside, only